


SANCTUARY

by Tales of Josan archivist (nocturnus)



Series: Man of Property (by Josan) [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, First Time, Written Pre-Half Blood Prince
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-28 23:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10842009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnus/pseuds/Tales%20of%20Josan%20archivist
Summary: Ten years after the war, Hermione seeks sanctuary at Snape's home.[Second Installment in the Man of Property series]





	1. One by Josan

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally archived by Josan at Tales_of_Josan blog at Live Journal. She hasn’t updated her blog since 2008.  
> I am merely putting them onto AO3 so that they are safe from any issues on LJ.  
> I'm doing this for the purpose of preserving her fics.

Title: SANCTUARY  
Subtitled: Second Installment in the Man of Property series.  
Author: Josan  
Posted: December, 2004  
Rating: NC-17, for psychological scarring.  
Pairing: SS/HG  
Warning: HET  
Feedback: leave a comment or jmann@pobox.mondenet.com  
Disclaimer: the usual one about me not owning and therefore not financially profiting. If only!  
Beta: Bounced this one off several people, including kaiz, the Ottawa Slashers and my flist.

~~~~~~~~~~

 

The small brown cat made her way cautiously through the hedge, her belly to the ground, her ears flickering, her nostrils flaring, alert to any sound or scent of potential danger. At one point, her whiskers stiffened and twitched as she passed through the protective yet unseen barrier which, after some effort on her part, reluctantly allowed her to continue on her way. Other than that, she came out on the other side unscathed.

Still, she wasn’t taking any chances. With an eye on the house, she kept to the protection of the hedge – and not just because of the rain – as she made her way into the small orchard that stood to the right of the house. There she found enough shelter under the leaves and branches of a laden apple tree to take the time to groom herself. First appearances, she had been firmly taught by her mother, were important.

Finally satisfied that she would pass muster, she sat on her haunches and took a good look at the property she had invaded.

The house was, to say the least, interesting. After a few minutes, she determined that it was the kind of house that would appeal to her. Mind, she did wonder what he had seen in it. It was irregular enough to upset those who preferred the balanced symmetry of Georgian architecture – like Harry and Ginny’s so-called ‘cottage’ – or the sprawling, one-level, ultramodern, based-on-an-American design – like Ron and Eloise’s antiseptic monstrosity.

Yes, at least this one had personality.

The grounds were carefully but not fanatically kept. Things had been allowed to grow in places that best suited them, not their keepers. The orchard had several different kinds of fruit trees; she recognised pippins and russets among the apples. And further, she could see plum, pear and crabapple varieties as well.

From her vantage point – not the best, admittedly, but the safest for the moment – she noted some of the groupings that spotted the terraced slope of the house on this side. There were definite herbs and plants that were of practical use, as well as the last stubborn roses of the season climbing up the front end of the house. Even from here and in this grey light, she could see different plants growing in the security of the greenhouse.

Yes, he might have been drawn to the house just for that structure. Though, she herself felt more drawn to the light that glowed in the section before it, through the bank of windows that formed the length of one wall and the part which jutted beyond the greenhouse. Strange to think that he would choose a building with so many windows.

She glanced up at the sky. The rain showed no sign of stopping or even diminishing. She had better make her move or she might find herself failing the renown code of Gryffindor conduct.

With a flick of her head, she Transfigured into her human self. In her nervousness, she’d forgotten where she was and that her feline form was much shorter; her head hit the branches and cold rain trickled down her neck. Shivering, she ducked out from under the tree and went to stand, pulling her hood over her head.

So much for appearance. She reached for her wand and then changed her mind. This might be a way of penetrating the next line of defense.

Taking a deep breath, she anchored her satchel more securely over her shoulder. Then, with a nod, she braced herself and began walking briskly towards the front of the house, still keeping to the security of the hedges as she did so. Her brown cloak was blending in rather well; at least, no one charged out of the house, threatening to spell her away from the place.

By the time she did find herself standing within reach of her target, what appeared to be the main door, even with her hood up, she was rather wet. She ran through the puddles on the walkway to the door and hoped that someone would take pity on her and let her in out of the sudden downpour, because, of course, as with everything else these days, Mother Nature had decided that this very moment was the perfect time to dump the contents of her clouds.

She lifted the knocker, a brass snake entwined around a beaker – she smiled at the appropriateness – and rapped it hard against the wood of the door. There were a couple of narrow windows in the door but she couldn’t see inside. No doubt spelled to allow only one-way viewing.

She waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited yet some more until a sneeze made her take the knocker up to strike it against the door as hard as she could. She had no intention of going away so whoever was on the other side, waiting for her to leave, had better understand that she was not. And preferably before she caught a cold.

She sneezed again and was reaching for the knocker when she heard an unlocking sound and the door opened but a sliver.

“Go away,” said a voice. “We want no visitors.”

Faster than the door could be shut, she jammed her shoulder against the edge, using all of her weight to keep it from closing.

“Dobby? Is that you?”

The pressure against the door stopped and she was certain she heard a sigh.

“Dobby, please. It’s raining and I’m sopping wet.” And she conveniently sneezed to make her point.

The door opened a smidgen, enough to allow a long-nosed elfin face to peer around the heavy door.

“Hermione Granger? Oh, it is Miss Hermione!”

But the door didn’t open immediately. It was as if Dobby had to consider the cost of letting her in. She didn’t blame him, not after the incident with Harry and Ron.

“It’s all right, Dobby. I’ve not come to argue with him. I just need to see him for a minute. I promise. My word as a Gryffindor.”

Mind, that didn’t mean she wasn’t hoping that he would invite her to stay longer.

Finally, the door opened, but just enough for Hermione to slip in.

The foyer was nothing special. Just an entry into a wide hallway. There was a winding staircase to the right, leading to the upper storeys, a closed door at its foot. To the left, she could see another door, open and providing the only light into the entry.

Dobby stood shifting nervously, clasping his hands as though to stop them from reaching for her sodden cloak. She smiled at him, her most understanding, encouraging smile. “It’s all right,” she said again, her tone conciliatory. “I only need a minute, two at the most.”

Dobby sighed loudly, resigned. “Come this way, Miss Hermione.”

He headed down the hallway, past the open door of what, after a quick glance, Hermione determined was a large study/library. She didn’t lag behind but followed Dobby out of the dark, main house and into the brighter, warmer second section.

What she had seen as a solarium from the outside was in fact a large breakfast room. There was a fireplace happily balancing out the grey, cold light from the outside. The walls were painted a soft yellow colour which picked up the warmth of the flames. The furniture, oak she guessed, old and heavily polished, added to the inviting warmth of the room.

Which was a good thing as the man watching her from over the top of some journal, cup in hand, was anything but warm and inviting.

He glared at Dobby, who hopped nervously again.

“It’s not his fault,” Hermione said quickly. She didn’t want the house elf to be held responsible for her presence.

“Of course not,” said the man, getting to his feet in a manner that indicated anything but courtesy. “Remembering you, I can quite believe that. Dobby, I suppose that Custom indicates you should offer Miss Granger a cup of tea.”

Hermione smiled. She had depended on Custom to get this far; she might as well continue doing so. She carefully slipped her satchel and cloak off and, wand in hand, spelled them and herself dry before handing them to the waiting elf. “Actually, Dobby, if it’s not a bother, I really would prefer coffee. Black, please.”

Then, turning back to her unwelcoming host, she pulled out a chair at the table and sat down, ignoring the stepped up glare as she did so. She smiled though, under the table, she crossed the fingers of her left hand. “You’re looking well, Professor.”

And he was, so much more compared to the last time she had seen him, lying at death’s door in a bed at St. Mungo’s.

His expression was as forbidding as it had ever been but on a face that looked as though it hadn’t bothered with that visage in some time. He’d put on some weight. Not that he would ever be fat, but his face had filled out somewhat, looking less spectral. The mouth was less pinched, making the thin lips seem fuller. The nose still commanded attention. His hair, pulled back in a plait, was now a dark grey, with only a few strands of its original black. Strangely enough, it made him look less severe. Mind, those eyes hadn’t lost anything in the intervening years. Hermione forced herself to meet them and consciously resisted the urge to wriggle.

Face grimacing with his displeasure, her host sat, rather reluctantly accepting her presence at his table. “What do you want, Miss Granger?”

Hermione nodded her head slightly; she might have known that there were limits to what Custom would grant her. “Well, Professor, I’ve come to beg Sanctuary from you.”

There was the sound of breaking crockery behind her as the man’s mouth dropped open and his eyes blinked. Well, what did you know; she had actually managed to take him by surprise!

In the silence that followed, Hermione used her wand to deal with the mess behind her. Fortunately, the pot of coffee had only spilled a little. Thanking Dobby with a nod and a smile, she poured herself some in the repaired cup and watched as Severus Snape worked his way through her request.

ssSSss

 

They’d moved into what Hermione had indeed guessed was a large library. Not only were there shelves of books on all the walls from floor to ceiling, but there were also three library-sized free-standing stacks that filled the far half of the room. At this end, a large fire, the source of the light she’d seen on entering the house, was dispelling the coldness and humidity of the late September storm.

Hermione sat in the deep leather armchair that was to one side of the large, almost black desk that backed into the corner nearest the fire. She squinted at it, finally recognising it as the one she and her old partners in crime had faced far too often in her student days. Mind, in those days, it hadn’t been anywhere this polished.

The light from a window fell onto a desktop that was relatively neat. Her own was usually a mess of reference tomes, paperwork and scraps of calculations. She waited, her hands folded on her lap, as Snape stood staring out of the window, his hands clasped behind his back which was to her.

Apart from asking her to follow him when she’d finished her coffee, he’d said not a word. Now he sighed loudly and went to sit behind the desk. His face expressionless, he rested his elbows on the desktop, steepled his fingers and rested the end of his chin on them.

“Sanctuary, Miss Granger?”

She nodded. “Sanctuary, Professor.”

He said nothing for endless seconds. If he hoped his examination of her was going to bother her, he was wrong. More determined than ever on this course of action, Hermione forced herself to sit quietly, waiting patiently, her eyes meeting his.

He blinked first.

“Does this have anything to do with the upcoming celebrations?”

Hermione nodded.

“I would have thought that you would enjoy being in the midst of them.”

Hermione grimaced at the sarcastic tone. “The First Anniversary Celebration wasn’t bad. We all enjoyed that.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Snape.

Hermione nodded again. “Yes, your absence was commented upon. At that time.”

The eyebrow incredulously rising hadn’t lost any of its disdain.

“It was,” she insisted gently then shrugged. “It’s not often that a living recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class, does not appear in order to be so honoured.”

Snape lowered his hands and sat back in his chair, his face now in the shadows, offering no comment of any kind.

She made no mention of the fact that, to the best of her knowledge, he had never been invited to any such celebration. Even if he’d been physically able to attend. “I was studying in Florence for the Fifth. By the time the Tenth came around, I didn’t much see the point of it. But because Harry and Ron insisted, I did attend. And, frankly, I was bored out of my mind.”

Hermione sat back in her chair, making herself comfortable. She crossed one foot over the other and stared at a wall of books. “I must admit that I’ve never quite understood this fascination with war anniversaries. All those old men and women pulling their medals out of some drawer and wearing them one day a year. I’ve come to the conclusion it’s because that war was the most interesting thing that ever happened to them. And that day is a way of asserting that their lives were once not as boring, as tedious, as uninteresting as they have now become. I think it gives them a reason to remember that they once experienced a true adventure, horribly though it was when it happened. That once they lived life to the fullest, not crawled their way through it.”

“What does any of this have to do with Sanctuary, Miss Granger?”

But she noticed that his voice was less harsh than it had been.

“Well, it has to do with the fact that my life is still being lived to its fullest. I have work which occupies my life pleasurably. I have a book that I need to research and complete in time to satisfy my editor, which must be before the next International Arithmancy Convention. I really don’t have the time to waste an entire month with all the so-called festivities surrounding this, the Twenty-Fifth Anniversary.”

“So?”

“So, I need a place in which to hide out from Harry and Ron. They’ve been after me every year since the Tenth to attend and, this year, they are proving to be particularly headstrong about it. They’ve involved my editor, who has now offered to postpone my deadline. They have even approached my colleague in Florence and insisted that he refuse to work with me for the month!” She shook her head, bewildered by it all. “I’m certain that, if they’d thought of it, they would have approached the Arithmancer’s organization to have the convention postponed.”

Hermione stood up. Her irritation at these incursions into her life was still far too fresh. She paced the floor in front of the desk, trying to control her anger, but not doing particularly well.

“Just because that war was the highlight of their lives, they seem to think that no one else ever moved on. I’m certain that even you would admit that Harry had the potential of being one of our most powerful wizards...”

Snape made a small moue with his mouth but, other than that, didn’t disagree with her.

No, not even Snape could deny that.

“But, no,” she went on, “he preferred to play Quidditch. And he did. For twelve years. He participated in three Quidditch Cups, and they won two. He even went on to coach a win. Now he dines off those experiences as a representative of the Ministry and its sports program.” She sighed, unable to hide her disappointment. “I wonder if he’s at all aware that he’s become our generation’s Ludo Bagman.”

Snape snorted softly. She thought he did that to prevent a laugh from spilling out.

“Sans the gambling problem, of course,” she hurried to add. Well, in a way, it wasn’t all that bad; Harry was indeed doing a lot with the sports sub-ministry. But he really should have been Minister for Magic by now. Once, he’d had that potential. Just not the ambition.

Snape said nothing so she went on.

“And I’m sorry that Ron never advanced any higher in the Ministry than Assistant to the Deputy Head of the Department of Aurors.”

More of a glorified secretary, really. And still riding on Harry’s coat-tails.

“He spent years laughing and mocking Percy, only to end up working under his brother. Far under.”

She stopped in front of Snape.

“But this does not mean that I...” she threw up her hands in frustration. “That I’m stuck in the same rut as they are. They just can’t accept that my life is...is more...” She began pacing again.

“More occupied; in blunt terms, more meaningful than theirs.” Snape’s voice was coolly understanding.

With a sigh and a nod of agreement, Hermione dropped into her chair. “It’s been twenty-five years, Professor. Twenty-five. I’m sorry that, for them, that time was the best it will ever be, Professor, but I have no nostalgia for those events. I’ve moved on and I don’t want to go back to that time. Not even to make them happy.”

“But why me, Miss Granger? Surely you’ve friends with whom...”

Hermione sighed even louder. “Yes, I do.” Then she shrugged, “Well, a couple. And they’ll expect me to go to them. Harry and Ron are determined that I shall participate at any cost. For some reason, they feel that my presence will validate...” she gestured wildly, “something.” She slouched back in the chair, legs stretched out, totally discouraged. “I just can’t seem to get through to them. And those of my acquaintances with whom I’ve spoken seem to think that it’s not such a big deal. That I should be honoured to participate. They don’t get the fact that I don’t see it that way.”

Snape leaned forward, his face coming into the faint light falling from the window. “Again, why me?”

She looked up at him. “Because they’ve already dealt with you.”

Snape’s sneer was heartfelt. Damn the boys.

“I’m surprised that you are aware of that encounter. I don’t believe it was ever mentioned in any publication.”

Hermione stared haplessly at her hands now clenched on her lap. Not that she doubted that annual visits just before dawn would be of great interest to the Daily Prophet.

“They came to brag about it to me.” She looked up, aware that this knowledge might be her ticket out the door. “I’m sorry, Professor. They had no right to attack you that way. You were only minding your own business. You had as much right to be in Diagon Alley as they had. That they dared to challenge you after all that you’ve done for us...for the Light. What you suffered...”

Snape held his hand up, stopping her from continuing.

“‘Challenge’,” he sneered, “tends towards understatement, Miss Granger.” Then he changed his tone to a slightly calmer one. “If you know that, you must also know the manner of their dispersal?”

“Yes.” Hermione suddenly smiled. “Not from them, of course.”

Snape growled, “Of course not.”

“But from the apothecary who witnessed the...attack. I went to question him after their visit.” He’d fired the clerk who had given out the information of Snape’s visits to Ron. The man had been livid at the prospect of losing Snape’s business. She cocked her head as she dared, “Did you really threaten them with Imperio if they didn’t leave you alone?”

Snape nodded slowly.

“Would you really have used an Unforgivable to get rid of them?”

Snape nodded even more slowly this time.

“Why?”

Snape’s shoulder rose in a small shrug. “It seemed that was what it took for them to understand that, like you, I have no urge to celebrate what for me is the demise of so many people I once knew as colleagues, friends and students, no matter which side they were on.” He stood up. “That last particularly seemed to arouse some very negative responses from Misters Potter and Weasley.”

Hermione nodded; over the years, the distinction between the two sides had only grown stronger, not faded away, in the minds of her once-close friends.

“I’m in agreement with you, Miss Granger. They seem to think that all our lives are stuck in some war that has long since interested only historians. As you say, it has been twenty-five years. Like yours, my life has moved on. They seemed to be...quite offended that it had.”

He rested his hip on the side of the desk. His face grew colder. “And the fact that I have yet to claim my Order of Merlin seemed to be a particular irritant to Mr. Weasley. That,” and here Hermione could hear Ron in Snape’s voice, “a former Death Eater, such as myself,” he sneered; Hermione winced, “should consider himself fortunate even to have been considered for such an honour.”

Snape’s smile was absolutely frigid. “I assume that Mr. Weasley still feels slighted that his Order of Merlin was Second Class. I could understand your offense at a mere Second Class...”

Hermione raised her own eyebrow at that; when was strategy ever properly acknowledged? She had long ago dealt with that little slight. Now she ignored it to snort, “To hear Ron tell it, he cornered Voldemort on his own and held him at bay until Harry arrived to finish him off.”

Snape said nothing but Hermione suddenly remembered what it had been like to find him that horrible day, broken and bleeding from having Voldemort’s attention centred on himself until Harry had indeed arrived to deal with the Dark Lord.

“They won’t try anything again,” she spoke softly, using the view from the window to overlay the one from her memories. “I’ve left a note with my neighbour, telling her that I’m off to do some research. It will never cross their minds to come looking here for me. Not that they could get in?”

Snape merely looked at her. “Meow,” he finally said, with certainty.

Hermione felt the grin on her face. Yes, she needn’t explain to him how she had managed. He would remember her working with Minerva McGonagall all those years ago. Not that she’d ever registered as an animagus; officially, her ability to transfigure herself had never gone that far. Unofficially, it was how she had managed to slip into Malfoy Manor and open the wards which had allowed Harry, Ron and the Aurors to enter. It wasn’t something she did often now, only once in a while, just to keep her skills from rusting. She doubted that her being able to do so would even cross Harry’s, or Ron’s, mind.

Serious once more, she stood and faced him. “Please, Professor. I promise I won’t get in your way. I just need some time to finish researching my latest book and have it published in time for the next conference. I’ve barely got eighteen months to do so. You’ll never know I’m here.”

Snape scowled. “I seriously doubt that, Miss Granger. But since you’ve claimed Sanctuary, I cannot, in good conscience, deny you.” He scoffed. “As you say, Misters Weasley and Potter will never think of your coming here to me. Do you need much time to gather your belongings?”

Hermione shook her head. “They’re in my satchel.”

Snape’s face froze. “Of course.”

Hermione shook her head. “If you hadn’t agreed, Professor, I would have headed for Oxford and hidden there as a Muggle doing research. I didn’t know if you would accept me and I certainly didn’t depend on it.” She slipped her hands into her sleeves and made him a formal bow. “But I thank you, Professor. I thank you very much for your generosity. And I promise I will not abuse it.”


	2. Two by Josan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years after the war, Hermione seeks sanctuary at Snape’s home.

Though he had withdrawn from public view, Snape wasn’t kept out of touch with the wizarding world. He had his subscriptions to the Daily Prophet, the Quibbler, Witch’s Weekly. That last he perused only occasionally before handing over to Mindy for the elves’ delight.

So he was aware of the occasional kerfuffle Granger’s progression through Arithmancy ranks was causing. Her first book had set more than a few arithmancic noses out of joint, a rare occurrence for a world that was almost as isolated as he had chosen to be.

He had always thought it was not happenchance that Hogwarts had its Arithmancy classes at the top of a tower while Potions was in the dungeon. That tower would not have been out of place had it been made of ivory.

Pure science versus practical science.

Abstract theory versus visual evidence.

Head in the cloud versus nose in the cauldron.

Ne’er the twain would meet.

And into this insular world of old Masters and Mistresses had come Hermione Granger, who was, by Arithmancy standards, still a babe pulling at her mother’s breast.

Well, the “babe” had taught them a thing or two.

Snape snickered in the privacy of his library. Not that he would ever mention it to her, but the day that he had read that a student of his had managed to become a Mistress of Arithmancy at the unheard age of 40, he had willing forgiven her for all the times she had irritated the hell out of him.

Yes, she had been a know-it-all in his classes. Even the N.E.W.T. level classes had barely challenged her. Had it not been for Draco Malfoy, who, after O.W.L.s, had suddenly revealed a competitive spirit that had pleased Snape as much as it had annoyed Granger...

But Arithmancy suited Granger’s temperament far better than Potions or Charms, even the realm of Transfiguration that Minerva had been so keen on Granger entering.

And it would seem the adult Granger was not interested in the practical unless it interfered with her plans in some way. Then she dealt with it, in a way that was her arithmancic version of practical. Why else hunt out a professor she had barely been able to tolerate in order to get away from her friends?

She’d promised not to get in his way and, in a manner of speaking, she kept her promise.

Still, it took some getting used to, this having a partner in the morning sharing a first cup of tea. Well, coffee for her.

Fortunately, like himself, she did not require conversation in the morning. Had she, he would have had to insist that she take breakfast in her room. But she joined him, whether for breakfast or supper – they never seemed to meet for lunch – a book or a journal in hand and, other than a polite nod of acknowledgement, didn’t expect more of him.

Once the meal was over, she disappeared into her room or into the library. Either way, he neither heard her nor saw her. It truly was as though she wasn’t there. But, of course, she was.

On the fourth day, she did wonder, as he rose to leave the breakfast table, if he might not happen to have a copy of “Arithmancy Tables, circa 1651? I seem to have left mine at home and I need to verify some information.”

Snape thought as he rolled up the International Journal of Potions Mastery he had been reading. “Third stack over, left end, towards the bottom.”

She looked surprised.

“It’s among some of the books I inherited from the Headmaster. It was his Minor while at Salisbury. You may find other tomes there of interest to you. All that I ask is that you treat them with the care they deserved.”

Well, uninvited guest though she might have been, there was no need to keep her away from his library. He wasn’t that petty about her use of Sanctuary.

Of course, Dobby and the other house elves were delighted to have her around. His needs were few and, though they took excellent care of him, he knew that they looked upon the presence of another person as a rare treat. A very rare threat. Other than Poppy Pomfrey’s annual inspection of him, he had no other visitors.

Mindy’s suppers were far fancier than they had been. Granger sent her compliments to Mindy for every meal and thanked Dobby with real pleasure when some favourite of long ago showed up. He suspected that she was uncomfortable with the presence of the other elves, what with her old commitment to S.P.E.W., but she said nothing to him, or to the elves themselves.

Ola was sadly complimentary on the fact that she kept her room and the bathroom she used neat and tidy. Clim relished the fact that there was someone who really appreciated his flowers; small bouquets of them were now appearing on the table, sideboards and, no doubt, the rooms Granger used.

Though between himself and his guest, there was very little conversation, Snape found that he was growing used to her presence very quickly.

However, Granger was proved wrong when she said that no one would think of looking for her here.

Snape looked up from the morning’s mail to stare at her until he’d got her attention.

“What?”

Like him, Granger was not prone to sentences until at least her second coffee, which she required to be as strong as he took his tea, also preferably in a large mug.

“We are to be honoured with a visit from the Minister’s office.”

She laid her book flat on the table and picked up her mug with both hands.

He found it interesting that she didn’t inquire any further. For someone who had always had her hand up in his classes, who had lived – and still did – with her nose in a book, she had finally learnt to wait for information.

“From the Deputy Minister himself.”

“Percy Weasley!” Then she frowned. “Does the letter say why?”

Snape looked down at the missive written with pompous formality. “No. Merely that he’ll Apparate here this morning around eleven.” He looked back at her. “It would be prudent that he not find any traces of your presence. I shall be meeting with him in the library.”

Granger nodded, still frowning, obviously worrying over the visit. The elves had set up a table for her by one of the windows, which she used whenever she was researching in the library, always when he was busy in his laboratory. He was confident that, by the time Weasley arrived, there would be no signs of her in the library, or indeed on this floor.

He rose to his feet. There should, however, be time for him to continue his experimentation on a potion before Weasley arrived. On his way out of the breakfast room, he paused. “I believe that should one sit quietly by the old heating vent in the bedroom to the left of yours, one could probably hear all conversation occurring in the library.”

ssSSss

 

Percy Weasley had changed mainly in that his face was more ferretty than Snape remembered. Unlike his younger brother, Ron, he still had a full head of hair, though it seemed less red than it had once been. He wore his position proudly and obviously. In the history of all the Weasleys who had gone to work for the Ministry, he had been the one to attain the highest rank. Snape did not doubt that he made much of that fact.

“Snape. Thank you for seeing me.”

And with a tone even more pompous than he had used as a student.

Snape gestured to the chair that someone – it had to be Granger; its positioning was almost directly under the old heating vent – had set up in front of his desk. He waited until Weasley had settled his robe with its insignia of office to his own satisfaction before taking his chair behind his desk.

“I’m certain that you won’t mind if I get straight to the matter.”

Snape smiled coldly. “Not at all. I’m certain that we both have better things to do with our time.”

Weasley nodded, not having picked up the sarcasm. Or perhaps just ignoring it. “It’s about the celebrations for the Twenty-Fifth Anniversary of the Victory over the Dark Lord.”

Snape fought the urge to roll his eyes. Dead twenty-five years and still so few people dared to call the wizard by his name. But he only nodded, waiting for the point of this visit.

“Are we to assume that once more you will not be participating at any of the planned events?”

“That is a very safe assumption, Mr. Weasley...”

So the fact that Snape hadn’t use his title offended, did it? Well, too bloody bad!

“...Since no one has bothered to send me an invitation. Is that why you are here? To assure yourself of that fact? I would have thought that Potter and your brother...”

He was interrupted by a dismissive wave of Weasley’s hand. “Yes, yes. You made your position quite clear. It is merely that the new Minister for Magic feels that since you still seem disinterested in picking up your Order of Merlin, First Class...”

The slight sneer on the word ‘first’ indicated to Snape that some people still did not think him deserving of that level of honour, even if he had been the only one among them able to spy upon Voldemort’s inner circle. He forced his thoughts away from that time. As he had maintained to Granger, he liked to think that he had moved on. So all he did was raise a cool eyebrow and look bored.

Weasley slipped a hand into one of his inside pockets and pulled out a narrow case. He looked at it, made a small moue of disapproval and, with no more than that, he leaned over and placed the case on the desk in front of Snape.

Snape waited until Weasley glared at him to pick it up and open it. The Order of Merlin, First Class, sat resplendent on its black velvet bed. He said nothing, merely looked at it then snapped the case shut and placed it back on the desktop.

Snape rested his chin on the tip of his steepled hands. “I was under the impression that unless the recipient was dead, one could only receive this honour in the presence of the Minister and representatives of the Wizengamot.”

Weasley nodded, his face coldly disapproving. “Yes. In your case, there has been an exception made. Madam Minister, as you may know, is fairly new to the office. In one of the briefings we had on the celebrations, it was indicated that you still hadn’t picked up your award. She insisted that, after twenty-five years, you shouldn’t have to come pick it up. So she assigned me to deliver it to you.”

And that rankled, Snape could tell. A Deputy Minister being assigned to deliver an award, like some common delivery boy. It was quite obvious that Weasley felt such an assignment was beneath him.

Snape looked at the case. If he remembered well, he had taught Roberta Thruffington’s daughter. A Ravenclaw, like her mother. They tended to like to tie up loose strings.

“Please thank Madam Minister on my behalf.”

“Yes, I shall.” Weasley made to rise and then settled back in his chair. Snape braced himself; now they would come to the real reason for the visit. He had no doubt that Weasley would have sent some underling to deliver the Order unless there had been a second, more important reason for the Deputy Minister to come himself.

“Tell me, Snape, have you had any contact with Hermione Granger in recent times?”

Snape sat back in his chair, affecting surprise. “Granger? Why would I have any reason to be in contact with Granger? Or, for that matter, she with me?”

Weasley shrugged, as though it were not anything important. “It’s just that Madam Minister would like her to attend this celebration. She wants to present the three responsible for the destruction of the Dark Lord with a special award commemorating the event.”

Well, that explained a few things. Potter and the other Weasley’s meeting and the manner of it. Their behaviour and attitude had been guaranteed to keep him from the celebrations, had he ever considered attending.

Guaranteed that there would be no need to acknowledge a former Death Eater had had anything to do with the reason for the celebration.

Long gone but, after all this time, he still had his enemies.

Did that explain the delivery of his Order of Merlin? His pay-off for not forcing them to recognise his contribution officially?

Maybe it also explained the reason for this Weasley’s presence. He obviously had wanted to offer that slight himself, in person. But Granger must have truly hidden her tracks if they were reduced to coming to him for information.

Snape brought out what he thought of as his Death Eater’s smile. It pleased him to see that it could still affect the self-important twit sitting suddenly wary in his chair, under his roof. He stood up and gestured to the door. “I would warrant that Miss Granger has far more important things to do than to contact me, Mr. Weasley. Now then, if you will excuse me, I have a potion awaiting me. It’s at a delicate stage of experimentation and requires my full attention. Once more, offer my thanks to the Minister for her...consideration in sending the Order to me and I bid you good-day.”

He watched as Weasley rose, wrapped his robe around himself and, sniffing with disdain, Disapparated back to his office.

Snape picked up the case with his Order and opened it. He stared at the medallion, waiting to feel something at seeing it in his hands after all this time. Pleasure or vindication, even anger.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He opened the top side drawer and, with a snap of its cover, tossed the case in. With a snort, he shut the drawer. He used his wand to re-establish the wards then headed for his laboratory and the waiting potion.

ssSSss

 

He was carefully checking the potion’s response to the addition of pulverised billy fly stings when there was a knock on the laboratory door. He paused, staring into the liquid that was slowly turning a vibrant green. He should have expected this; she wasn’t the kind to let what she’d heard lie.

He dropped the rest of the powder into the cauldron and reached for his stirring spoon. “Come in.”

“You don’t have any wards set up on your laboratory.”

Snape glared over his shoulder as he mentally counted. She was just inside, standing on the landing that led down the stairs to the working section of his laboratory.

He ignored her as he finished counting to 200. He placed the spoon down and turned, a little surprised to find that Granger was sitting on the top step, elbows on knees, her chin propped up on her fisted hands.

“Until now,” he growled, “I haven’t needed any. The entire house is protected independent of the property wards. The reason Weasley sent the letter was not just to notify me of his visit, but so that the anti-Apparation wards on both property and house could be temporarily released.”

He waited for her to comment on the density of his wards, but she said nothing. He rested back against the nearest counter and watched her as she examined his laboratory.

It had been a workshop of some kind when he’d bought the small estate. Because of the property’s tendency to slope by the house, it was more than a level but not quite two. He’d designed his laboratory to take advantage of that. The deeper, farther end was where he’d set up his fires and working space. Along the two longer sides, at the lower level, he’d had built, on one side, a series of deep cupboards that housed his large implements, like the vats he sometimes used for certain potions, or the jars and bottles he used to store finished potions. The other side had bins and drawers for the storage of supplies that he used in great quantity. The counter tops were re-enforced to bear the weight of the second set of narrower cupboards and other storage cabinets, along with a walkway so that he could access these from the upper landing. The compartment under the stairway held storage for light-sensitive material and a door that led to the cold room built under ground.

“What are you working on?”

Snape wondered how long before she got to the point she wanted to make. “A potion for dealing with the deterioration of the mind.”

“A cure?”

Snape shook his head. Of course, she would be interested. When was she not? “More of a way of slowing down the deterioration. The medi-scientists I am working with have not yet located the exact cause. Until they do, it is hoped that this potion may help to prevent further degeneration.”

“I had been wondering what you’d been doing with yourself all these years. I couldn’t see you without a potion at hand.”

Snape shrugged but said nothing.

“I think it stinks.”

Snape blinked. The aroma coming from the cauldron was not pleasant but it wasn’t that bad.

“Not the potion,” she added.

Snape slipped his hands into his sleeves. So she was referring to the situation. “That’s the way it is.”

“That’s why I want nothing to do with it. Except that, right now, I’m tempted to go just to use the opportunity to remind everyone exactly how much they owe you.”

Snape felt a relaxing of some tension in him. He suddenly remembered that, when Granger felt strongly about something, her voice trembled. The vibrato in her words erased the insult of Weasley’s visit.

“Don’t bother. Not on my account. I prefer that they should forget about me. Moreover, I have a particular dislike of crowds. But now that you know the reason they want you...”

Granger’s snort gave him pause. “Is that why you never went to pick up the Order, because you hate crowds?”

Snape straightened; he now also remembered her tenacity. “No.”

He owed her no explanation and yet he felt that maybe she, of all people, just might understand.

“No. My name was put up for the Order, First Class, because Albus Dumbledore insisted upon it. And since he was a dying hero, the then Minister acquiesced to his demands. The reason I was actually given it was because they thought that I, too, was then dying. And as we all know, Albus did but I didn’t. I doubt that I would have been received at any time with open arms had I decided to pick up my Order.”

She lowered her hands. “You deserved that award. The Headmaster knew it. Even if they deny it now, Harry and Ron knew it. I certainly I know it. Without you...”

He waved her sincerity away. “Let us be honest about this, Miss Granger. There were some at the time who thought – and probably still do – that I should have been more thoroughly investigated. The Ministry closed Slytherin House for twelve years after the end of the war, just to keep the few Slytherins left, even the innocent ones, from congregating together. Even now the Head of Slytherin House reports regularly to the Head of the Aurors.”

A fact that even now had the ability to send Poppy into rants about honour and fairness and forgiveness.

“One of the reasons I was not sent to trial was that my injuries were such that it took over two years for me to recover. I spent that time in seclusion, far out of public eye. And when I do go out, I am careful not to attract attention to myself. The incident in the apothecary shop occurred during one of the few sorties I have made to Diagon Alley in these many years.”

Granger frowned, not happy with the situation but obviously not willing to debate his conclusions with him. “Wait a moment! There’s a purse that goes with the Award. Percy...”

Snape shook his head. “Leave it be, Miss Granger. I have more than sufficient to deal with my needs. And I am well paid for the work I do with the medical community. Even if I my part is not officially recognised.”

She cocked her head and sighed sadly. It amused him that she was upset on his behalf.

“Is it enough to support this estate as well as your needs?”

He froze and wondered if this was truly why she had come back into his life. His voice bare of emotion, he said, “The money used to purchase this estate was left to me by Albus Dumbledore.” Then suddenly angry at the events of the day and what he suspected was coming next, he added, “For some reason, maybe to appease his conscience about the way he’d misused Slytherin House during his days as Headmaster, he made me his sole heir. The Ministry is well aware of this fact.”

Her eyebrow rose high and he waited for her to snap at him. She’d become very good at snapping at him in those last days of the war. She didn’t disappoint him. “And just how,” her voice as cold as his, “did Albus Dumbledore misuse Slytherin House?”

He walked up to the foot of the stairs and glared up at her, surprised to find that, even after all these years, it still rankled. “With his blatant, unjust favouring of Gryffindor. With his overlooking Gryffindor’s flagrant breaking of the rules. With his turning a blind eye to the fact that, by doing so, he was alienating and even pushing some Slytherins into Voldemort’s camp.”

Granger paled at the accusation but met him head on. “Harry had to be trained for his role in Voldemort’s death. If that seemed like Gryffindor was being favoured...”

He moved up several steps until they were eye to eye. “There were some who would have come over to the Light had the Headmaster encouraged them to do so. Instead...” He took a deep breath to deal with the pain that always arose whenever he thought of this. “Instead I got to stand by and watch as people I knew and cared for died for a cause they never should have sided with.”

The bitterness in his voice shocked him but he couldn’t stop it.

“Instead I was privileged to put my life on the line for people who never wanted to recognise the fact and never believed that I was working for them. That I might believe as they did. All because I was one of those disavowed Slytherins. After all, why would a Slytherin...” he spat the word as he had last heard it from the mouth of Ron Weasley, “...a so-called former Death Eater, work for the Light unless he had a hidden agenda?”

“That’s downright silly.” The fatuousness of her comment stopped him. “There’s no way that anyone from the Order of the Phoenix who worked with you in those days could believe...”

She had the intelligence to stop there, knowing that her statement was far from true.

He consciously pulled himself back from long-gone days and slipped his hands into his sleeves. He turned his back to her and went down the stairs to his cauldron. “Then I suggest you have a little talk with those major disappointments to wizardry, Misters Potter and Weasley.”


	3. Three by Josan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years after the war, Hermione seeks sanctuary at Snape's home.

He truly expected her to leave then. To stand up and stalk out. Maybe even throw some insult his way for his disparaging of her friends. Instead she remained where she was, examining her hands. 

He was checking the consistency of the contents of the cauldron when she finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Professor. You’re right. Unfortunately. And sadly. I can’t speak for the others, but for myself, I thank you.”

He looked around at her and was taken aback by the sadness in her face. 

“You’re right, of course. Albus was too taken with keeping the Boy Who Lived alive to see the consequences of his actions. In his defense, may I say that he’d fought one Dark Lord and wanted to win against this second one. And, yes, the cost was far too high. As for your risking your life, I know about that first hand. And you should have been publically thanked for that as well. There’s no excuse...”

Oh, Merlin! The last thing he wanted to be was the focus of a Granger crusade. Snape shook his head, stopping her. He couldn’t infuse his voice with forgiveness, but he did draw out the cold. “Past history, Miss Granger. Let’s leave it there, shall we?”

She watched him with those intense eyes of hers while he waited for her response. “All right. It shall be as you ask. But do you think you could bring yourself to call me Hermione? This ‘Miss Granger’ stuff makes me feel...old. I’m only 44, nowhere near ready for the Old Witches’ Home.”

Snape took a good look at her. No, she was nowhere ready for that. She had the colouring and bone structure of someone who would always look younger than they were. Yet, the face had gained a maturity that allowed her to be taken seriously as the expert she was, in spite of her relatively young age. Most of the highly respected Masters or Mistresses of Arithmancy were a good 40 to 50 years her elder. She’d even managed to tame that bush of hair, as she now wore it cut as a cap of curls. 

He nodded. “Then you must call me Severus. We are no longer professor and student.

She managed a small smile, her eyes warning him. “No longer commander and canon-fodder.”

He could feel his eyebrow rising high at that. So she hadn’t forgotten that last argument of theirs. She had wanted to infiltrate some Voldemort nest and he’d forbidden it. She’d yelled at him that all he wanted her to be was common canon-fodder, not use her talents as they should be. And he’d yelled back that if he wanted to use her as such then such she’d be.

It was the ultimate irony that her talents had been what had saved him.

“Exactly. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some testing to do.”

And this time she did leave the laboratory. Snape sighed. He could feel a headache coming on. It had been a while since he’d had one, but then it had been a while since his life had been honoured with so many visitors in so short a while.

ssSSss

Things went back to normal. They grunted their “good mornings” and Hermione worked in her room unless the library was free. She was impressed by the quality of Snape’s library; there were a lot fewer books than the one at Hogwarts, but they were the best of their kind. She found that often, as she was looking for a specific volume, she would find others, not necessarily in her specialty, that caught her interest.

The Potions section comprised the main part of Snape’s collection; that was to be expected. What took her a little by surprise were the journals that filled a portion of his shelves. Journals from all over the wizarding world. As near as she could tell, most of them dealt with potions, but there were others as well. In fact, she was outright stunned to find a rare Arabic journal on Arithmancy that she had been trying to track down for years.

Hermione had never questioned Snape’s intelligence, but she was now more aware of the diversity of his interests. The newer journals were not just there for show, they had been read. And annotated, in typical Snape manner; lots of dark, bold writing – with exclamation marks – in the margins.

She began paying more attention to her host. It had been obvious that Percy’s visit had upset him. He’d come into the dining room with a slightly hesitant gait to sit to the evening meal with pale face and furled brow. Mindy had come into the room, taken one look at him and ordered him to bed.

Dear heavens! The thought of anyone ordering the old Snape she knew to bed. And of him slowly rising from his place, excusing himself and actually listening! And that someone an elf!

Hermione had wondered if her mouth would close long enough to eat. Heavens, she still shook her head over the memory.

She also began watching Snape with his elves. He, of all people, would remember how she felt about house elves and their enforced service. Slytherins had teased often enough about S.P.E.W. Dobby had often tried to explain to her that elves never felt it was forced, that it was something they enjoyed doing.

Maybe, but she was certain that it depended on the master.

Well, it would seem that these house elves had finally found the right master. One whom she would never have considered in a month of Sundays as able to be not just the right master, but a kind one as well. One who enjoyed their company.

Why else would he be out in the orchard, picking up wind-fall apples and other fruit with them?

Hermione walked closer to the solarium windows so that she could get a better look. Breakfast had been waiting for her when she’d come down this morning, but there’d been no one else about. A flash of colour had got her attention and drawn her to the windows.

There were the elves, dressed in their usual vibrant colours, laughing and squealing with delight as they rummaged around the leaves, locating fruit and filling baskets with them. And there was Severus Snape, not in his usual garb, but in – she squinted to make certain she was seeing what she was – what appeared to be black twills and a heavy black sweater. He was using his wand to move the baskets from tree to tree, or – and here she rubbed her eyes to make certain she was actually seeing what she thought she was – rounding up the leaves into small piles that one or another of the elves was jumping into as they were done with one area.

Just as Hermione was wondering if they would object to knowing that she was watching them, Ola turned around just then and caught sight of her. With a cheerful wave, the elf invited her to join them.

Hermione thought a moment then put her coffee down and ran up to her room to change into Muggle jeans and a heavy top.

The air was crisp with the definite scent of autumn. She hummed a little tune, more to warn the others that she was approaching. Dobby looked up from the scattered leaves that were slowly coming down on his head and grinned at her. “Miss Hermione!”

Snape turned to watch her join them, no expression that she could discern on his face. He cocked his head and raised that bloody eyebrow. She slowed and wondered if her presence meant he would return inside. Instead, he merely said, “I see that I’m not the only one who allows himself to be bossed around.” Then he went back to moving the filled baskets to a small outbuilding that she’d noticed on her walks over the property.

“You needs fresh air,” chirped Ola, not at all taken by Snape’s attitude.

“You needs to work if you wants apple pie and apple butter and apple cider,” Mindy giggled.

Hermione nodded as she indicated the apples still in the trees. “When do those get picked?”

“Clim decides that,” Snape commented. “As he does anything that concerns the gardens. We exist but to hear and obey.”

The elves found that very funny and even Snape managed a smile. Hermione concluded it was some in-joke and bent to pick up a bruised apple.

It was that day working with Snape and the elves that gave her the idea. Well, not exactly gave. She’d been playing around with it for some time, over the last few years. But whenever she’d thought of taking it further, something had always happened for her to shove it back into its corner of her brain. There had been some new idea to develop into a concept thereby requiring more research. And the dictates of her profession always took precedence over her personal life. 

Then the death of her parents had made it less...urgent than it had once been.

She brought it out that afternoon after a quick lunch of mugs of pumpkin soup and cheese sandwiches, eaten in the spell-warmed spot under the trees with her co-workers, and found herself making a mental list of fors and againsts. She examined her list, moving some elements from one side to the other, as they collected more of the fruits and some vegetables from various beds on the property, to stack in the building that was, in fact, a cold house, due to the wards Snape had cast upon it.

Hermione laughed with Mindy when Snape grouched about how it would require at least a couple of apple pies for him to recoup the energy these spells were draining from him. She marveled over the soft berries that were perfectly preserved for whichever time and purpose Mindy would decide to use them. And she was stunned to hear the elf tease her master about his fondness for blackberry preserves.

“No matter how good a harvest we have in them, we never have any jars left come the next season. And we elves,” Mindy confided loudly to Hermione, all the time keeping laughing eyes on Snape, “are not all that fond of blackberry preserves, you know.”

The new Snape only protested softly, “If you didn’t make them so good...”

Supper that evening was more soup and thick roast beef sandwiches, for all, in the parlour. Which Hermione discovered was a fairly regular happening when Snape didn’t have guests. Not on his orders, but because the elves felt it wasn’t proper to do so in front of visitors.

“They like you,” Snape said as he handed her a second piece of apple pie. “They don’t like to show themselves to just anyone.” Hermione could understand that as she had heard from Dobby about their previous master. “And they’ve never blessed Poppy with such an honour as allowing her to join us in a meal.”

And that was one of the things that finally decided her. That Severus Snape, that most Slytherin of Slytherins, the bane of her school days, the man who once ordered others about with no regard for their feelings, was conscious of the honour of his house elves, a concept that Hermione felt certain was beyond most wizards and witches of the magical world.

ssSSss

Mindy outdid herself for Hermione’s last supper under Sanctuary. Snape himself offered her a toast, “To the success of your coming book and may it set off many a turbulent dispute among Arithmancers, who have deluded themselves into thinking they have discovered all there is to know.”

Hermione laughed; Severus Snape would offer a toast that indicated he was well aware of her secret love of challenging the norms of the Arithmancy community. Why was she not surprised that he would have deciphered that about her, a mere month after all those years of not having contact with her?

She raised her glass and saluted him. Somehow the fact that this was her last night under his roof seemed to have loosened something within Severus Snape. He was actually smiling at her. 

A rather nice smile, now that she had time to look at it.

Maybe he had been right to pull away from the wizarding world; it had certainly lessened his snarky bitterness. In fact, other than the day of Percy’s visit, she had heard none of the snap and snarl that had coloured his voice all those years ago.

Maybe, Hermione accepted that her glass be refilled, this was a good idea after all. Maybe he would see it in the spirit in which she meant it.

They had adjourned to the parlour, for cognac, when Snape, slouched spinelessly in his chair, asked, “So, was this Sanctuary all that you wished it to be?”

Hermione slipped off her shoes and curled up, feet under her, in a corner of the couch that faced his chair. “Very much so. In fact, I got so much accomplished that I’m ahead of the schedule I set for myself.” She tipped her glass towards him, “I have you to thank for that.”

He accepted her toast with a small nod of his head then sipped at his drink. “You were a good guest, Hermione, and I know the elves will miss you greatly.”

Hermione smiled and wondered aloud, “Only the elves?” Before he could answer, she went on, “I, for one, have discovered just how comfortable you are. Funny,” she cocked her head as she contemplated him, “looking back on the times we spent together, I never would have thought of you and comfort being synonymous.”

Snape’s laugh was a little rough, as though he weren’t certain how to handle her compliment.

“Mind,” she continued, “it does allow me to wonder if there might be another favour I could request of you.”

Snape smirked. “No, I will not gift you with that copy of the Arabian journal. Besides which, by now, you must have it memorized.”

She smiled. “Yes, I have. And, no, that is not the request.”

Snape waited for her to say more and when she didn’t, only looking, she hoped, mysterious about the matter, he prodded her. “Well, then, ask. At worst, I shall only say no.”

Hermione put down the now empty glass on the small table that stood next to the couch. She placed her hands on her lap and looked at him with what she knew was her mother’s ‘we must have a serious talk’ face.

“I would like you to impregnate me.” And as he blinked, not certain what he was hearing, she added, “Tonight, before I leave. The timing is right for me and...”

“You want me to what?”

He wasn’t yelling so he still wasn’t certain that she wasn’t joking. 

“You heard me. I want you to impregnate me.” And she waited for the fireworks.

They didn’t come. He was too stunned for fireworks. She doubted that she had ever seen Severus Snape at such a loss for words. She decided to take advantage of it and put forth her reasons.

“Severus, I am 44 years old. Old for conception by Muggle standards, close to it by witch’s. I have been thinking of this for the last several years. I want a child.”

“A child?” He rose to his feet, face pale. “You want me to give you a child?”

She met his incredulity right on. “Why not? You are everything I would want in the sire of my child. You are an expert in your field, a wizard of great powers, and no one can challenge your intelligence. Though it smacks of arrogance and elitism, I would want my child to have a chance at intelligence from both of its parents.”

Snape paced before the fire then turned on her. “You’re crazy!”

Hermione shrugged. “Yes, there are some who think so. But I doubt that I am less sane than most of my generation.” She allowed her voice to firm. “And I know what I want.”

“A child? You want a child by me?” He still hadn’t moved into anger, but his voice was beginning to heat up. “Me? The greasy git of your nightmares?!”

“Severus!” she snapped. That she had done so, so startled Snape that he stopped pacing.

She used her mother’s voice. “Sit down and listen to me.”

Interesting to note that worked. Was he really so taken aback by her request that he was that malleable? 

“Let me make this perfectly clear. I want you to impregnate me, not marry me. Once that is done, I will leave this house and you will probably never see me again.”

“Never see you again?”

Hermione nodded. “This child is for me only. You will not be asked to have anything to do with it. I have no intentions of claiming you as the father or asking that you help support it or us. I will give you my word that I shall not even reveal to the child who its father is. You will not be bothered by either myself or the child. I give you my solemn word on that.”

“Your solemn word?” Sneered.

She allowed herself to glare at him. She had to keep control of this conversation; she knew him well enough to know that if she didn’t, she wouldn’t get what she wanted. “I am still a Gryffindor, Severus. You know that when I give you my word, I keep it.”

Hermione leaned forward and changed tactics slightly; honey and not vinegar. She softened her voice. “Severus, I want a child. Not a husband. I want my career. I want the pleasures associated with my work. And I want to know the joy of being a parent, of raising a child, of protecting it, of seeing it progress through whatever life it chooses for itself. But I don’t want a man interfering with either my life, my work or my child.”

“Interfering?”

She nodded, watching the old scorn take life in his eyes.

“And wouldn’t a child interfere with your life and work?”

She was almost relieved to be dealing with Snape of her youth. She had a pretty good idea on how to deal with him; the new Snape was still too much of an unknown. “No. Because it would be my child. And my child could never be an interference.”

Snape’s sneer challenged her intelligence, as it always had. “And what makes you think I would do this for you? Give you a child? Why would I even want to?”

Hermione sighed. She had hoped that he would be more amenable. She really didn’t have the time to argue this out with him. He was a veteran arguer; she had listened to him tear arguments apart far too often and too well when they had been battling Voldemort. If she allowed him an opening, he would grab it to come up with measures and countermeasures until it was too late. Her curtain of opportunity was short and it had to be now, within the next few hours. If she truly wanted this – and to some surprise, she did – she would have to pull out the big guns.

“You owe it to me.”

And suddenly, the Severus Snape of her first year was there, in that chair, in all his fearsome glory. “I OWE YOU!”

She winced but nodded.

“And how the bloody hell have you come to that delusion?!”

“Life debt.”

His mouth opened but nothing came out.

She took advantage of that to clarify the matter. “I’m the one who found you. I’m the one who kept you alive until you could be taken to St. Mungo’s. I’m the one who went and got Poppy Pomfrey to force them to save your life when they refused to work on you.”

Leaning forward, meeting him eye to eye, glare for glare, she affirmed, “You are alive because of me, Severus Snape, and I am calling in that debt.”

His honour. She had been counting on his honour and his hatred of owing.

He sputtered a little more but they both knew he would do it. What other choice did he have, he who hated owing? And she made it clear that all that was required of him was his participation in the act. Nothing more. And if she didn’t get pregnant, that was still the end of it. Not that he would ever know. She would never get in touch with him in any manner or form. She even wrote it all down for him, just so that he would have something to use against her should she ever try to contact him for any reason.

He didn’t rape her. 

Not that she would have blamed him if he had. She had, after all, rendered him powerless to resist her request. He had to be angry, even if he hid it well behind a mask of emotional coldness.

But it seemed that he had left whatever of him that was Death Eater back in the hell hole of Malfoy Manor, the night Voldemort had discovered that one of his Inner Circle was a spy. The night Severus Snape had been given over to Lucius Malfoy for the pleasure of the Dark Lord and his Right Hand.

Still, it wasn’t an experience she’d ever care to repeat. 

He sent her to get ready in her room and came to her. Dressed in his nightshirt. 

He insisted on the room being unlit and she complied, wanding out the fire and the lamps.

He was awkward. Obviously ill at ease. He didn’t remove her nightgown nor his nightshirt. There wasn’t much foreplay and she had to use her hands to get him hard enough for penetration. At least she had thought of lubrication because her body didn’t produce enough to make it easy.

The fact of it was embarrassing for both of them and she found she was glad that he had wanted darkness.

No sooner had he caught his breath from coming than he was off her. The door closed softly behind him; she discovered she would have preferred to hear it slam.

She waited an hour, not moving, just staring at the canopy of the bed, mind blank, before she got up and dressed, draping her satchel over her shoulder.

At the front door, she turned to look back up the stairs and caught sight of Mindy in the hallway, watching her with a tear-stained face.

Damn. She’d forgotten that house elves knew everything that happened under their roof.

She nodded to the elf but Mindy abruptly turned her back on Hermione and disappeared into the darkness of the house.

Hermione closed the door behind her, as softly as Snape had done, and pulled her hood over her head. As fate would have it, it was raining, as it had been for her arrival.

She rested her back against the door as she raised her face to the cold rain. She found herself smiling as her hand went to her stomach. She gave it a gentle pat. “Welcome,” she whispered.

No one noticed the small brown cat that made her way out of the property though the hedge.


End file.
